Emerald Embrace (38 page)

He came closer still, his whisper hotter, their breath mingling. “Aye, lady, what this froth of silk doth do! There was indeed murder in my heart when I saw the looks of the men upon you. Custom be damned. This must be for my eyes alone.”

He caught her hands and whispered, “Now, lady, now you are my wife.”

“Aye, so you say,” Martise murmured.

“’Tis still a charade?” he said harshly. She felt the searing heat of his body beneath the velvet cape. A cape that very much resembled the cloaks worn by the men in the forest.

Or like that worn by the laird in her dream. The laird who came to claim her in the dragon mask.

To claim her, to love her, or to slay her …?

She tried to pull away from Bryan but his arms held her tight. “What is this?” he cried. “You would deny me now?” A husky, boldly sexual tone gripped his voice. “After all that has been between us? When now I have raised you up and made a lady of the temptress!”

“I was ever satisfied as Mistress St. James!” she retorted.

He smiled. “Nay, lady, never! For you came as Lady St. James, if you will recall. And still, no matter. You are the bride of Creeghan now, my lady. Mine now, my love.”

He swept her up into his arms, and she was torn between vast excitement and the edges of fear. “You would force me to do your will, then, Laird Creeghan?” she demanded.

“The Bride of Creeghan always does the will of the master,” he reminded her.

And he laid her upon the bed, upon the black velvet spread with the emblazoned red dragon.

“Not this bride,” she vowed stubbornly.

“I would never force anything from you, milady,” he murmured, smoothing back her hair. “But always, my love, the laird of Creeghan will have what is his.”

He leaned over her, and she closed her eyes, breath moving rapidly and softly through her parted lips. He would kiss her, she knew, kiss her and sweep her to the forbidden world of enchantment that he had so thoroughly introduced her to before. A world where she could not tell the difference between love and danger. When the line drove her endlessly higher to peaks unknown …

His lips did not touch hers. She opened her eyes and discovered that he was studying her with both amusement and desire.

“Alas,” he said. “Even the laird of Creeghan cannot always have what he wants exactly when he wants it.”

He stood and shed his velvet cape, but not to return to her side. Despite the obvious arousal of his body, he went to his armoire and pulled out a pair of breeches, climbing into them hurriedly.

Martise stared at him in disbelief.

He slipped on a shirt and walked over to the bed, bent down and kissed her lightly. Feeling like a fool, Martise twisted from his touch and edged up on the bed. “Where—where are you going?”

“Down below.”

“Below?”

“Into the crypts,” he said, sitting to pull on a pair of socks and his boots. “No one would expect me now. This might be my best chance.”

“Expect you to what?” she demanded, shivering.

“Of searching out the crypts,” he responded on a note of aggravation. He rose, but then paused. In his dark shirt and breeches and boots, he resembled a pirate more than a dragon laird, and he smiled with a rogue’s curl to his lips. “My lady, I am ever so glad to see you distressed at my departure.”

“I am not distressed!” she protested.

“I shall hurry back.”

“Please, don’t bother. Contrary to the laird’s opinion,” she said coolly, “he cannot always have what he wants. At any time.”

“My love, you wound me.”

“I am not your love. This is a game we play.”

He waved a hand in the air, and no longer taunted her, but spoke seriously. “The Colt remains beneath the bed. If anyone comes near you, do not hesitate. Shoot.”

“What if you are the first to come near me?” she asked sweetly.

“If you choose to shoot, then do so with deadly accurate aim, or rue the action until your dying day,” he warned her. “Martise, do you hear me? Stay here. Do not leave, not for anything. Not if there are lights, or cries, not if the wind screams, and the very castle threatens to catapult into the sea. Do you understand me?”

“Aye!” she cried out.

“Good. And the Colt—”

“The Colt is beneath the mattress. And I am a very fair shot,” she assured him.

Bryan leaned down and Martise tried to roll from his touch, but his arms pinned her and his lips seared fire against hers despite her effort to elude him. He kissed her until the breath was taken from her, until she could fight no more.

“I will be back,” he promised.

She gritted her teeth. “Do not return on my account, Laird Creeghan.”

“Aye, but lady, I shall,” he promised again.

He straightened, then slipped through the dressing room, and the door closed, and his voice hoarse and low warned her that it must be bolted.

She rose and slid the bolt, and she leaned against the door and then sank slowly against it.

The laird of Creeghan was gone.

After all of his threats and promises, he had left her. She was his at last, legally a bride of Creeghan. His wife, no matter what the game.

And he was gone.

Gone into the caverns of the darkness …

She was very much afraid, and no amount of denial could change that fact.

She wanted him back that night. She wanted him back, alive and vital and lustfully demanding …

Making her his bride in truth.

T
he dream began with the mist. It swirled and crawled around her, brushing against her flesh. Dove gray, hazy, cool, like a vine, it grew up from the shadows beneath her and caressed her.

Then she heard the wind.

Soft and low it began, a whisper, words she could not actually hear, thoughts she could not comprehend. Then the sound rose to a moan, to a cry.

And as the wind grew louder, the mist began to creep away.

And he was coming.

Walking across the rock, wrapped in a black velvet cloak. His stride was slow and easy, lazy … sensual. She could not see his face, for he wore the dragon mask. All she could see were his eyes.

Eyes of fire.

Blazing and burning, and promising heaven and hell.

The mist had cleared, and she was on the rock, naked and alone. And the wind was the cry of the villagers, below on the cliff, watching, chanting, waiting.

Waiting for the blood to feed the earth.

She did not move; she could not move. She was imprisoned by the very stone of the cliff. He was coming closer and closer, and then he stood beside her at last, staring down at her with the flames of his gaze scorching her flesh. She wanted to scream, but she could not. She wanted to deny him, but she could not. He swept aside the folds of the cloak and she closed her eyes, awaiting the sharp feel of a knife to pierce her throat before her body could be tossed to the waves below …

Softness …

Softness caressed her. Searing heat stroked against her nape and over her shoulders. Sweet, arousing, a touch now upon her thighs, curving around her buttocks, stroking. Her eyes opened, and there was no rock beneath her, only the softness of the feather mattress of the laird of Creeghan. She was awake, and yet still so weary, so hazy, as if she had awakened in the mist.

The laird himself was at her back, naked, no black cloak upon his shoulders, no dragon mask upon his face. His kiss, hot and sultry, warmed her neck and shoulders, and coursed over the sheer silk along her spine. His hands swept up the soft blue folds to bare her limbs and hip, and stroked her naked flesh. He rolled her to him, the bareness of his lower body meeting hers. And he smiled, seeing that he had awakened her. With mischief, with a rogue’s pleasure.

With eyes of fire …

Of passion, of promise.

“I was dreaming,” she murmured.

“Of me?”

“Aye,” she whispered. And her eyes closed again. “You were a witch, a warlock, a dragon lord. And you meant to take your blade against me.”

His lips touched hers and whispered against them. “Indeed, lady, I mean to bring a blade against you, but one of flesh and blood and desire rather than steel.”

Martise smiled, and her lashes just barely lifted over her eyes. He had never ceased to touch her. To stroke her with the silk between them. Slowly, so slowly that every stroke was luxurious and sweet. And ever more intimate.

“’Tis a charade, a game, and nothing more,” she whispered.

“If it be a game, lady, then let’s begin to play.” And with those words he sank between her legs. Slowly again, so slowly that she ached with each small movement, so slowly that she closed her eyes and drifted again, and felt the wind surround her, and bring with it the lazy caress of the breeze …

Then his hands molded about her buttocks, and his body entered fully into hers, and she cried out softly, for at first it seemed that she would be torn asunder, and then it seemed that fire had exploded within her, and that she would die if he should leave her.

The magic carried her, urgent, gentle, urgent once again. Bursting within her and all around, fire to dispel the mist, heat to ward away the cold. The feeling so high and so sweet that she had never known life more acutely … the world fading and spinning so that it was blackness again, and mist. And still …

He was within her, part of her. His arms were around her and they slept together until she dimly awoke, aware of movement again, of magic, and the wildness, the cry that was the wind, the passion that was the very Highlands.

And then again, she slept. Soundly, deeply. The wind had grown quiet, and even the waves washed gently upon the Dragon’s Teeth far below.

    She was alone when she awoke suddenly, with a start. Sitting up, she looked around. Daylight filled the room. It was late, she imagined.

The soft blue silk gown was still upon her shoulders and she closed her eyes, trying to remember the night. She had dreamed. Dreamed of witchcraft and dragons and the cliffs and the rocks and the waves that touched the shores. And in her dream, he had come to her.

No, that had not been the dream! she assured herself.

She swept her hand over the spot where he had lain. The bedding was cold. But his scent remained, husky, elusive, and still warming to her, and she knew that she had not imagined him. She hugged her arms about her chest and knew, from the telltale feel of her body, that she had not dreamed the dragon laird in truth.

Martise jumped out of bed and came to the balcony. The cold wind instantly tossed and buffeted against her face. The temperature had dropped overnight.

All Hallows’ Eve had brought its own chill.

She slipped back into the room and crossed through the dressing room to the bath. Steaming water awaited her, as if the very minute of her awakening had been anticipated. She slipped off the gown and climbed into the delicious steam, sinking into it, allowing it to warm and soothe her. All Hallows’ Eve. It was upon them, and she could feel it. In the air, and deep inside.

Her teeth chattered and Martise told herself she was allowing the castle to seep inside of her. She could afford no flights of fancy, not here. Not today.

She decided not to tarry in the bath and rose quickly to take a huge towel from the cabinet. Wrapped in it, she came back into the bedroom and sat at the foot of the bed, perplexed, wondering what she was to do for clothing. She rose and looked tentatively in the armoire and discovered that a few of her dresses had been brought over. She searched through drawers and found her un-derclothing as well and dressed hastily. Finding the laird’s engraved silver brush upon his dresser, she pulled it through her hair, then left the room.

In the hallway she paused, certain she heard whispers.

It was the wind, she told herself.

But it was not. Low, genderless whispers were coming from the stairway that led down to the ancient crypts. She moved against the wall, trying to hear. The burrs seemed very thick. The ghosts were talking, she thought. And then, irritated with herself, she moved closer to the winding stairway.

“It canna be, ’tis come too clear—”

“It must be! ’Tis when she comes to the rocks—”

“He knows!”

“The Dragon’s Teeth will have their due, and that be it. Only we are privy to the trail. The walls will close around all others!”

She moved still closer. Her feet must have scraped against the floor, for the whispers were suddenly silent. She swore to herself and hurried for the stairwell and looked down.

Darkness greeted her. She could see no one, no one at all. Had it been the ghosts of Creeghan? How could anyone have disappeared so quickly?

The whispers had been swallowed up in the darkness. Martise hesitated at the brink of the stairway, and then she sighed. Only a fool would travel down into that darkness alone.

She bit her lip, thinking that someone had been in the master’s bath to fill it with the steaming water. That someone had surely been Hogarth. Could he be among those who donned dark cloaks and whispered in dark passages? Bryan believed in him. He was the only one in the castle besides herself who knew Bryan’s true identity. Or was he?